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Translators, traitors.

Italian proverbs
Added by Lucian Velea
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To His Worthy Friend Doctor Witty Upon His Translation Of The Popular Errors

Sit further, and make room for thine own fame,
Where just desert enrolles thy honour'd Name
The good Interpreter. Some in this task
Take of the Cypress vail, but leave a mask,
Changing the Latine, but do more obscure
That sence in English which was bright and pure.
So of Translators they are Authors grown,
For ill Translators make the Book their own.
Others do strive with words and forced phrase
To add such lustre, and so many rayes,
That but to make the Vessel shining, they
Much of the precious Metal rub away.
He is Translations thief that addeth more,
As much as he that taketh from the Store
Of the first Author. Here he maketh blots
That mends; and added beauties are but spots.
Caelia whose English doth more richly flow
Then Tagus, purer then dissolved snow,
And sweet as are her lips that speak it, she
Now learns the tongues of France and Italy;
But she is Caelia still: no other grace
But her own smiles commend that lovely face;
Her native beauty's not Italianated,
Nor her chast mind into the French translated:
Her thoughts are English, though her sparkling wit
With other Language doth them fitly fit.
Translators learn of her: but stay I slide
Down into Error with the Vulgar tide;
Women must not teach here: the Doctor doth
Stint them to Cawdles Almond-milk, and Broth.
Now I reform, and surely so will all
Whose happy Eyes on thy Translation fall,
I see the people hastning to thy Book,
Liking themselves the worse the more they look,
And so disliking, that they nothing see
Now worth the liking, but thy Book and thee.
And (if I Judgement have) I censure right;
For something guides my hand that I must write.
You have Translations statutes best fulfil'd.
That handling neither sully nor would guild

poem by Andrew Marvell
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Charity, caring, loving-kindness

Translators live a life
of great blessing, and of frustration:
they live uniquely in the mind
of the great ones they translate – and yet
are destined never fully to reveal this
in their native language, to their fellows,
countrymen and women;
must leave it to the reader, to restore to life.

We too, translators –
words into deeds, deeds into experience,
experience then taught in words…so -

charity, care, or loving-kindness?

maybe we are old, and we uncared for;
maybe we are young, and we uncared for..

but, caring care – this is so beautiful;
to receive; even just to watch; or best, to give…
and too good not to know…

so, we might follow that wonderful advice:
‘What you think you lack – give that! ’
and bestow all our ‘agape’, our ‘charitas’ –
the word which taxed - along with ‘faith’ and ‘hope’ -
the translators of the Bible…
that care that cares not to be care-worn…

we, to translate word to deed,
love, to loving-kindness;
love, to boundless care.

(for Mary N., too, who knows this)

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Haters

you say your boyfriends sweet and kind
but you still got your eyes on mine
your best friend's got her eyes on your
it all goes on behind closed doors
not the haters, just the hating
talkin bout us exterminating
broken promises and treaties
different life forms different species
haters
haters
haters
they dont belong anywhere
id like to see them disappear
what a waste
what a drag
haters
traitors to the human race
your one of those haters
you want my friends,you want my clothes
why dont you look in my eyes
feelin angry but ya dont know why
of envy greed and jealously
your spinning a web thats hard to see
HATERS
Haters
they dont belong anywhere
id like to see them disapear
what a waste
what a drag
haters
traitors to the human race
your one of those haters
and when your nice its just a pose
keep your lies out of my reality
your the queen of super-fic-ial-ity
the things you do should be a crime
you build up walls no one can climb
as if you think that words dont hurt
you look so clean but you spread your dirt
because you wish you were someone else
dont spit on me and shame your self
it all goes on behind close doors
and when your nice its just a pose
your one of those haters
traitors to the human race
haters
what a drag
id like to see them disappear
they dont belong anywhere
haters

[...] Read more

song performed by Hilary Duff
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The King's Tragedy James I. Of Scots.—20th February 1437

I Catherine am a Douglas born,
A name to all Scots dear;
And Kate Barlass they've called me now
Through many a waning year.
This old arm's withered now. 'Twas once
Most deft 'mong maidens all
To rein the steed, to wing the shaft,
To smite the palm-play ball.
In hall adown the close-linked dance
It has shone most white and fair;
It has been the rest for a true lord's head,
And many a sweet babe's nursing-bed,
And the bar to a King's chambère.
Aye, lasses, draw round Kate Barlass,
And hark with bated breath
How good King James, King Robert's son,
Was foully done to death.
Through all the days of his gallant youth
The princely James was pent,
By his friends at first and then by his foes,
In long imprisonment.
For the elder Prince, the kingdom's heir,
By treason's murderous brood
Was slain; and the father quaked for the child
With the royal mortal blood.
I' the Bass Rock fort, by his father's care,
Was his childhood's life assured;
And Henry the subtle Bolingbroke,
Proud England's King, 'neath the southron yoke
His youth for long years immured.
Yet in all things meet for a kingly man
Himself did he approve;
And the nightingale through his prison-wall
Taught him both lore and love.
For once, when the bird's song drew him close
To the opened window-pane,
In her bower beneath a lady stood,
A light of life to his sorrowful mood,
Like a lily amid the rain.
And for her sake, to the sweet bird's note,
He framed a sweeter Song,
More sweet than ever a poet's heart
Gave yet to the English tongue.
She was a lady of royal blood;
And when, past sorrow and teen,
He stood where still through his crownless years
His Scotish realm had been,
At Scone were the happy lovers crowned,
A heart-wed King and Queen.
But the bird may fall from the bough of youth,

[...] Read more

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Away Down South In The Land of Traitors

Away down South in the land of traitors,
Rattlesnakes and alligators,
Right away, come away, right away, come away.
Where cotton's king and men are chattels,
Union boys will win the battles,
Right away, come away, right away, come away.
Then we'll all go down to Dixie,
Away, away,
Each Dixie boy must understand,
That he must mind his Uncle Sam,
Away, away,
And we'll all go down to Dixie.
Away, away,
And we'll all go down to Dixie.
I wish I was in Baltimore,
I'd make Secession traitors roar,
Right away, come away, right away, come away.
We'll put the traitors all to rout,
I'll bet my boots we'll whip them out,
Right away, come away, right away, come away.
Then they'll wish they were in Dixie,
Away, away,
Each Dixie boy must understand,
That he must mind his Uncle Sam,
Away, away,
And we'll all go down to Dixie.
Away, away,
And we'll all go down to Dixie.
Oh, may our Stars and Stripes still wave
Forever o'er the free and brave,
Right away, come away, right away, come away.
And let our motto ever be -
'For Union and for Liberty!'
Right away, come away, right away, come away.
Then we'll all go down to Dixie,
Away, away,
Each Dixie boy must understand,
That he must mind his Uncle Sam,
Away, away,
And we'll all go down to Dixie.
Away, away,
And we'll all go down to Dixie.

poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Prophecy Of Famine

A SCOTS PASTORAL INSCRIBED TO JOHN WILKES, ESQ.

Nos patriam fugimus.--VIRGIL.

When Cupid first instructs his darts to fly
From the sly corner of some cook-maid's eye,
The stripling raw, just enter'd in his teens,
Receives the wound, and wonders what it means;
His heart, like dripping, melts, and new desire
Within him stirs, each time she stirs the fire;
Trembling and blushing, he the fair one views,
And fain would speak, but can't--without a Muse.
So to the sacred mount he takes his way,
Prunes his young wings, and tunes his infant lay,
His oaten reed to rural ditties frames,
To flocks and rocks, to hills and rills, proclaims,
In simplest notes, and all unpolish'd strains,
The loves of nymphs, and eke the loves of swains.
Clad, as your nymphs were always clad of yore,
In rustic weeds--a cook-maid now no more--
Beneath an aged oak Lardella lies--
Green moss her couch, her canopy the skies.
From aromatic shrubs the roguish gale
Steals young perfumes and wafts them through the vale.
The youth, turn'd swain, and skill'd in rustic lays,
Fast by her side his amorous descant plays.
Herds low, flocks bleat, pies chatter, ravens scream,
And the full chorus dies a-down the stream:
The streams, with music freighted, as they pass
Present the fair Lardella with a glass;
And Zephyr, to complete the love-sick plan,
Waves his light wings, and serves her for a fan.
But when maturer Judgment takes the lead,
These childish toys on Reason's altar bleed;
Form'd after some great man, whose name breeds awe,
Whose every sentence Fashion makes a law;
Who on mere credit his vain trophies rears,
And founds his merit on our servile fears;
Then we discard the workings of the heart,
And nature's banish'd by mechanic art;
Then, deeply read, our reading must be shown;
Vain is that knowledge which remains unknown:
Then Ostentation marches to our aid,
And letter'd Pride stalks forth in full parade;
Beneath their care behold the work refine,
Pointed each sentence, polish'd every line;
Trifles are dignified, and taught to wear
The robes of ancients with a modern air;
Nonsense with classic ornaments is graced,
And passes current with the stamp of taste.

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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General Christiaan De Wet At Doornberg

(after David Naude)

In the dust lay de Wet's son;
he prayed to God, further did not say a word,
traitors came under a white flag,
spied for the British before the battle;
it was very sad to see
while a brave man served his country.

On his hands was his own son's blood
but he still gave courage to his men
causing the British and traitors to loose,
driving them back over the Zant River
winning more fame in the world's eyes
while a brave man served his country.

The British had fled past Winburg
to avoid general de Wet's commando,
some of the traitors were very scared
when the Boer commando captured them;
in de Wet's eyes God was still providing,
while a brave man served his country.

[Reference: 'Die slag van Doornberg' ('The battle at Doornberg' by David Naude.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Whom do you want to sit with?

Sitting with wise people makes you wise
Sitting with rich people increases your pride
Sitting with unfortunates makes you humble
Sitting with ignorant makes you more puzzle
Sitting with traitors can make you traitors too
Along whom do you sit with, it is up to you!

poem by Abdul Wahab
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The Princess (part 5)

Now, scarce three paces measured from the mound,
We stumbled on a stationary voice,
And 'Stand, who goes?' 'Two from the palace' I.
'The second two: they wait,' he said, 'pass on;
His Highness wakes:' and one, that clashed in arms,
By glimmering lanes and walls of canvas led
Threading the soldier-city, till we heard
The drowsy folds of our great ensign shake
From blazoned lions o'er the imperial tent
Whispers of war.
Entering, the sudden light
Dazed me half-blind: I stood and seemed to hear,
As in a poplar grove when a light wind wakes
A lisping of the innumerous leaf and dies,
Each hissing in his neighbour's ear; and then
A strangled titter, out of which there brake
On all sides, clamouring etiquette to death,
Unmeasured mirth; while now the two old kings
Began to wag their baldness up and down,
The fresh young captains flashed their glittering teeth,
The huge bush-bearded Barons heaved and blew,
And slain with laughter rolled the gilded Squire.

At length my Sire, his rough cheek wet with tears,
Panted from weary sides 'King, you are free!
We did but keep you surety for our son,
If this be he,--or a dragged mawkin, thou,
That tends to her bristled grunters in the sludge:'
For I was drenched with ooze, and torn with briers,
More crumpled than a poppy from the sheath,
And all one rag, disprinced from head to heel.
Then some one sent beneath his vaulted palm
A whispered jest to some one near him, 'Look,
He has been among his shadows.' 'Satan take
The old women and their shadows! (thus the King
Roared) make yourself a man to fight with men.
Go: Cyril told us all.'
As boys that slink
From ferule and the trespass-chiding eye,
Away we stole, and transient in a trice
From what was left of faded woman-slough
To sheathing splendours and the golden scale
Of harness, issued in the sun, that now
Leapt from the dewy shoulders of the Earth,
And hit the Northern hills. Here Cyril met us.
A little shy at first, but by and by
We twain, with mutual pardon asked and given
For stroke and song, resoldered peace, whereon
Followed his tale. Amazed he fled away
Through the dark land, and later in the night

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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The Third Monarchy, being the Grecian, beginning under Alexander the Great in the 112. Olympiad.

Great Alexander was wise Philips son,
He to Amyntas, Kings of Macedon;
The cruel proud Olympias was his Mother,
She to Epirus warlike King was daughter.
This Prince (his father by Pausanias slain)
The twenty first of's age began to reign.
Great were the Gifts of nature which he had,
His education much to those did adde:
By art and nature both he was made fit,
To 'complish that which long before was writ.
The very day of his Nativity
To ground was burnt Dianaes Temple high:
An Omen to their near approaching woe,
Whose glory to the earth this king did throw.
His Rule to Greece he scorn'd should be confin'd,
The Universe scarce bound his proud vast mind.
This is the He-Goat which from Grecia came,
That ran in Choler on the Persian Ram,
That brake his horns, that threw him on the ground
To save him from his might no man was found:
Philip on this great Conquest had an eye,
But death did terminate those thoughts so high.
The Greeks had chose him Captain General,
Which honour to his Son did now befall.
(For as Worlds Monarch now we speak not on,
But as the King of little Macedon)
Restless both day and night his heart then was,
His high resolves which way to bring to pass;
Yet for a while in Greece is forc'd to stay,
Which makes each moment seem more then a day.
Thebes and stiff Athens both 'gainst him rebel,
Their mutinies by valour doth he quell.
This done against both right and natures Laws,
His kinsmen put to death, who gave no cause;
That no rebellion in in his absence be,
Nor making Title unto Sovereignty.
And all whom he suspects or fears will climbe,
Now taste of death least they deserv'd in time,
Nor wonder is t if he in blood begin,
For Cruelty was his parental sin,
Thus eased now of troubles and of fears,
Next spring his course to Asia he steers;
Leavs Sage Antipater, at home to sway,
And through the Hellispont his Ships made way.
Coming to Land, his dart on shore he throws,
Then with alacrity he after goes;
And with a bount'ous heart and courage brave,
His little wealth among his Souldiers gave.
And being ask'd what for himself was left,
Reply'd, enough, sith only hope he kept.

[...] Read more

poem by Anne Bradstreet
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Tale I

That all men would be cowards if they dare,
Some men we know have courage to declare;
And this the life of many a hero shows,
That, like the tide, man's courage ebbs and flows:
With friends and gay companions round them, then
Men boldly speak and have the hearts of men;
Who, with opponents seated miss the aid
Of kind applauding looks, and grow afraid;
Like timid travelers in the night, they fear
Th' assault of foes, when not a friend is near.
In contest mighty, and of conquest proud,
Was Justice Bolt, impetuous, warm, and loud;
His fame, his prowess all the country knew,
And disputants, with one so fierce, were few:
He was a younger son, for law design'd,
With dauntless look and persevering mind;
While yet a clerk, for disputation famed,
No efforts tired him, and no conflicts tamed.
Scarcely he bade his master's desk adieu,
When both his brothers from the world withdrew.
An ample fortune he from them possessed,
And was with saving care and prudence bless'd.
Now would he go and to the country give
Example how an English 'squire should live;
How bounteous, yet how frugal man may be,
By well-order'd hospitality;
He would the rights of all so well maintain.
That none should idle be, and none complain.
All this and more he purposed--and what man
Could do, he did to realise his plan;
But time convinced him that we cannot keep
A breed of reasoners like a flock of sheep;
For they, so far from following as we lead,
Make that a cause why they will not proceed.
Man will not follow where a rule is shown,
But loves to take a method of his own:
Explain the way with all your care and skill,
This will he quit, if but to prove he will. -
Yet had our Justice honour--and the crowd,
Awed by his presence, their respect avow'd.
In later years he found his heart incline,
More than in youth, to gen'rous food and wine;
But no indulgence check'd the powerful love
He felt to teach, to argue, and reprove.
Meetings, or public calls, he never miss'd -
To dictate often, always to assist.
Oft he the clergy join'd, and not a cause
Pertain'd to them but he could quote the laws;
He upon tithes and residence display'd
A fund of knowledge for the hearer's aid;

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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Through the eyes of a Field Coronet (Epic)

Introduction

In the kaki coloured tent in Umbilo he writes
his life’s story while women, children and babies are dying,
slowly but surely are obliterated, he see how his nation is suffering
while the events are notched into his mind.

Lying even heavier on him is the treason
of some other Afrikaners who for own gain
have delivered him, to imprisonment in this place of hatred
and thoughts go through him to write a book.

Prologue

The Afrikaner nation sprouted
from Dutchmen,
who fought decades without defeat
against the super power Spain

mixed with French Huguenots
who left their homes and belongings,
with the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.
Associate this then with the fact

that these people fought formidable
for seven generations
against every onslaught that they got
from savages en wild animals

becoming marksmen, riding
and taming wild horses
with one bullet per day
to hunt a wild antelope,

who migrated right across the country
over hills in mass protest
and then you have
the most formidable adversary
and then let them fight

in a natural wilderness
where the hunter,
the sniper and horseman excels
and any enemy is at a lost.

Let them then also be patriotic
into their souls,
believe in and read
out of the word of God

[...] Read more

poem by Gert Strydom
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At every stage

At every stage and time we find traitors
They easily get backing with their mentors
Who thinks of security, nation or country?
When there is temptation for money?

Our head bows down in shame
No one appreciates it but only blame
When we come to know it by chance?
We condemn it in strong words at once

Bartering national interest is considered as treason
No amount of arguments can be accepted as valid reason
The mother land has to be considered above everything
It is not simple piece of land but above and all special and something

We can still consider some helpless situation
It may be compelled on individual with its continuation
The common sense may not come to his help to think otherwise
He may take such hasty steps which may not be considered wise

The murderers or trouble shooters can be dealt with harsh punishment
The economic offenders may be awarded with less confinement
Little crime here and there can be controlled with severe sentences
But what can be done with traitors to set the exemplary precedence

The death punishment to terrorist may make him hero in public eye
At slightest precondition, all the preventive steps may be given go bye
How helplessly we witness the deterioration in law and order?
Forget about daily skirmishes from neighbors on our borders

The fifth line disorder is known as enemy from within
You can fight external enemies and score a win
You are not aware of the threat existing inside
This threat perception is considered open and very wide

The national security is compromised for paltry some
This is causing great concern and considered as worrisome
We have not yet developed great sense of patriotism
Any peace loving citizen should be ashamed of such criticism

Enough damage is being done on this count
Later on lot of pressure is likely to mount
The matter may be discussed at every forum
There may prevail calm and everybody may keep mum

The national interest must be assigned with great importance
It can not be compromised at any level for an instance
It is not debatable and any breach of it must be dealt with severely
The ordinary function must be allowed to function very orderly

[...] Read more

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Patriotic once in a year

I claim to be patriotic once in a year
So many people may disbelieve and refuse to hear
It will ring them a danger signal in the ears
Still I say it emphatically to all my near and dear

I am no stranger to golden history of independence
For sow many years we remained under dominance
I am being poisoned repeatedly by the current trend
I have no more scope to improve or make amend

I feel shy of calling my forefathers idiots or stupid
Had it been known to them, they would have not made any bid?
Or laid down arms and lives for gaining freedom?
I have gone through complete history but came across seldom

Had I known for ever that it will be made only Government function?
I would have opted for making presence in any desolate junction
There at least I could have breathed freedom with free air
Can any one claim today that participation in such function is fair?

I salute to all those who consider mother land as more precious than heaven
I could have still considered less fortunate to take part even
My soul feels pinch of salt to hear the ill treatment of dependents of martyrs
It all drains my energy out and compels me to tire

I am for sure they will be remembered only for today
If they do not then they will be hackled for all the days
They have found all the escape routes to malign war veterans
Why do they want to share all plight and agony with concern?

I know it has been won after great sacrifice and struggle
I too know it well that it was barbaric and rule of jungle
Still they have spared some bright history behind
We nothing as such in store today to find

Even as on today we remember less all past glorious kings
Even from history we pick up the name of traitors and remember
How many such traitors we find in our free land as of date?
The history of independence is of recent times and not very late

We have mastered the art of laundering national wealth
We can play havoc with nourishment food and health
We can temper with judiciary and even holy constitution
With What respect I raise my head and claim part of institution?

I can compromise national interest for paltry some
If not war booty then cut back money can be received very handsome
If I fail to catch the nerves of my country men with their plight
How can I claim to be patriotic or even feel part or sensibly right?

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Traitors of today

Traitors of today occupy imminent position
Well orchestrated songs in praise for composition
Establishment of personal rule over millions of people
Can not look forward for anything good and are unable

What have they to do for their own country?
Rob, steal, cut backs and commission in form of money?
Add vows to already worsened poverty?
Can any one tell us when this will end misery?

I have all praise and kudos for their divine talent
We have tears in eyes but nothing more to lament
What else do they deserve to invite us for comment?
We prefer to be mere spectator and be silent

In ancient time people were hanged to death
For crimes, murders and ill gotten wealth
Today it is considered as an adorable art
Academicians, politicians present themselves as smart

Where is the national interest and security?
How can one claim to be powerful and mighty?
When house is full of defaulters and selfish?
Searching for troubled water to catch the fishes

Why are we facing such national scene?
Such a low lever acts were never witnessed or seen?
How come national wealth is deposited in foreign banks?
How come National security weakened and remains with unsecured flank?

I am no crocodile to shed the tears
I am immune and have no fears
I have power and money to manage the show
I can reign supreme and in full readiness to grow

O, countrymen wake up and prepare for national funeral
Decorate with honor and shields upon their arrival
They are our heroes to barter and take away the freedom
Such things may never appear to witness seldom

I feel pity upon those who foolishly laid down their lives
Curse on those parents who push their children and believe
“The motherland is precious than heaven” and come forward
Time has come now to think and look back ward

Where are those golden days when promises were kept?
Words were honored and nights were spent without being slept?
The national interest ruled supreme in the mind and at heart
Where from to pick thread now and with open mind to restart?

[...] Read more

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The Challenge. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Third)

I have a vague remembrance
Of a story, that is told
In some ancient Spanish legend
Or chronicle of old.

It was when brave King Sanchez
Was before Zamora slain,
And his great besieging army
Lay encamped upon the plain.

Don Diego de Ordonez
Sallied forth in front of all,
And shouted loud his challenge
To the warders on the wall.

All the people of Zamora,
Both the born and the unborn,
As traitors did he challenge
With taunting words of scorn.

The living, in their houses,
And in their graves, the dead!
And the waters of their rivers,
And their wine, and oil, and bread!

There is a greater army,
That besets us round with strife,
A starving, numberless army,
At all the gates of life.

The poverty-stricken millions
Who challenge our wine and bread,
And impeach us all as traitors,
Both the living and the dead.

And whenever I sit at the banquet,
Where the feast and song are high,
Amid the mirth and the music
I can hear that fearful cry.

And hollow and haggard faces
Look into the lighted hall,
And wasted hands are extended
To catch the crumbs that fall.

For within there is light and plenty,
And odors fill the air;
But without there is cold and darkness,
And hunger and despair.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Aechdeacon Barbour

THROUGH the long hall the shuttered windows shed
A dubious light on every upturned head;
On locks like those of Absalom the fair,
On the bald apex ringed with scanty hair,
On blank indifference and on curious stare;
On the pale Showman reading from his stage
The hieroglyphics of that facial page;
Half sad, half scornful, listening to the bruit
Of restless cane-tap and impatient foot,
And the shrill call, across the general din,
'Roll up your curtain! Let the show begin!'
At length a murmur like the winds that break
Into green waves the prairie's grassy lake,
Deepened and swelled to music clear and loud,
And, as the west-wind lifts a summer cloud,
The curtain rose, disclosing wide and far
A green land stretching to the evening star,
Fair rivers, skirted by primeval trees
And flowers hummed over by the desert bees,
Marked by tall bluffs whose slopes of greenness show
Fantastic outcrops of the rock below;
The slow result of patient Nature's pains,
And plastic fingering of her sun and rains;
Arch, tower, and gate, grotesquely windowed hall,
And long escarpment of half-crumbled wall,
Huger than those which, from steep hills of vine,
Stare through their loopholes on the travelled Rhine;
Suggesting vaguely to the gazer's mind
A fancy, idle as the prairie wind,
Of the land's dwellers in an age unguessed;
The unsung Jotuns of the mystic West.
Beyond, the prairie's sea-like swells surpass
The Tartar's marvels of his Land of Grass,
Vast as the sky against whose sunset shores
Wave after wave the billowy greenness pours;
And, onward still, like islands in that main
Loom the rough peaks of many a mountain chain,
Whence east and west a thousand waters run
From winter lingering under summer's sun.
And, still beyond, long lines of foam and sand
Tell where Pacific rolls his waves a-land,
From many a wide-lapped port and land-locked bay,
Opening with thunderous pomp the world's highway
To Indian isles of spice, and marts of far Cathay.
'Such,' said the Showman, as the curtain fell,
'Is the new Canaan of our Israel;
The land of promise to the swarming North,
Which, hive-like, sends its annual surplus forth,
To the poor Southron on his worn-out soil,
Scathed by the curses of unnatural toil;

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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Thirt Pieces Of Silver

THIRTY PIECES OF SILVER

Those early Roman days, were not much
different,
When bribery, corruption and evil ways,
had also prevailed!
Politicians crossed the floor of the Senate, -
like politicians of our days!
Morality, human values, and actions and
deeds,
Had price tags to satisfy human greed!
Both terrorists and traitors could be tempeted
by the devil,
To satisfy human lust and for the spread of
evil!
I often recall how Judas had betrayed,
By planting the traitors kiss on his Masters
face;
And sold Jesus to the Romans in a villanous
barter trade!
Thirty pieces of silver, became the price of
Judas soul,
For thirty pieces of silver, his Master he had
sold!
Thiry pieces of silver, was all that Judas got;
In exchange of hell fire and damnation as his
eternal lot!
-Raj Nandy
New Delhi
18 Aug 08
(Friends, the world is full of Judas these days!)

poem by Raj Nandy
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An Ancient Song - Parody after Tolkien and Summer Is Icumen In

Saruman's a'coming in
Sauron sing cuccu!
Spurneth seed, and soweth weed,
Filth-felleth the woode nu -
where once Ent women grew -
Sore_Wrong Ring cuckoo...

Thou bleedest after wham!
Truth after halfmast cows;
Bollock starteth, lucke farteth,
Breaketh Ent Tree boughs
‘Fore Treebeard's entry bows.
Merry sing cuckoo!

Trolls and goblins on patrol
seek for precious swallowed whole
while Shelob spider vile to vial
of light takes fright in secret lair
with orcses everywhere.
Mount Doom venteth, desolation shivers soul.

Though wizard voice charms choice it harms,
white hand darker groweth,
palantir pays traitors dear
fate's forfeiture it oweth,
Isengard though guarded, drowned
elves emigrate, all goeth.

Werewolves out to battle ride
so kings and queens are loth to hide
for Middle Earth man giant fighteth
though dark dragons plummet fast
wraith team win, redeem sin past,
fell fortress falls, dawn lighteth.

Cuckoo, cuckoo, well Worlde seems cuckoo:
He strike thu ever nu;
nor knew ye what to do
when forests walked on cue.
Wring Gollum's gold Ring cuckoo,
Sing Frodo, sing Bilbo too!

Second version
Saruman's a'coming in
Sauron sing cuccu!
Spurneth seed, and soweth weed,
Filth-felleth the woode nu -
where once Ent women grew -
Sore_Wrong Ring cuckoo...

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Cleared

(In Memory of a Commission)

Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt,
Help for an honourable clan sore trampled in the dirt!
From Queenstown Bay to Donegal, O listen to my song,
The honourable gentlemen have suffered grievous wrong.

Their noble names were mentioned -- O the burning black disgrace! --
By a brutal Saxon paper in an Irish shooting-case;
They sat upon it for a year, then steeled their heart to brave it,
And 'coruscating innocence' the learned Judges gave it.

Bear witness, Heaven, of that grim crime beneath the surgeon's knife,
The honourable gentlemen deplored the loss of life!
Bear witness of those chanting choirs that burk and shirk and snigger,
No man laid hand upon the knife or finger to the trigger!

Cleared in the face of all mankind beneath the winking skies,
Like ph]oenixes from Ph]oenix Park (and what lay there) they rise!
Go shout it to the emerald seas -- give word to Erin now,
Her honourable gentlemen are cleared -- and this is how: --

They only paid the Moonlighter his cattle-hocking price,
They only helped the murderer with counsel's best advice,
But -- sure it keeps their honour white -- the learned Court believes
They never gave a piece of plate to murderers and thieves.

They never told the ramping crowd to card a woman's hide,
They never marked a man for death -- what fault of theirs he died? --
They only said 'intimidate', and talked and went away --
By God, the boys that did the work were braver men than they!

Their sin it was that fed the fire -- small blame to them that heard --
The 'bhoys' get drunk on rhetoric, and madden at a word --
They knew whom they were talking at, if they were Irish too,
The gentlemen that lied in Court, they knew, and well they knew.

They only took the Judas-gold from Fenians out of jail,
They only fawned for dollars on the blood-dyed Clanna-Gael.
If black is black or white is white, in black and white it's down,
They're only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown.

'Cleared', honourable gentlemen! Be thankful it's no more: --
The widow's curse is on your house, the dead are at your door.
On you the shame of open shame, on you from North to South
The hand of every honest man flat-heeled across your mouth.

'Less black than we were painted'? -- Faith, no word of black was said;
The lightest touch was human blood, and that, you know, runs red.
It's sticking to your fist to-day for all your sneer and scoff,

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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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